


What a Week It's Been

by SalaciousCrumble



Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Bluepulse, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Slice of Life, Static is a minor character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-16 04:48:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28825473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SalaciousCrumble/pseuds/SalaciousCrumble
Summary: A slice of Bart and Jaime's civilian life for each day of the week. Characters are aged up to mid/late 20s. Mostly fluff, a dash of humor, and a sprinkling of angst on Tuesday.
Relationships: Bart Allen/Jaime Reyes
Comments: 8
Kudos: 14





	1. Sunday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaime's about 29 and Bart's about 26 (which means this is set in 2029 or so). But I've written it like it takes place closer to today.
> 
> Khaji Da is only mentioned in this chapter. Sorry, KD.

**SUNDAY**

Their apartment was pretty nice, but not  _ too _ nice for a couple of college kids. Not being Tim or Gar, both millionaires in the public eye, Jaime and Bart had to maintain some kind of cover. It wasn’t like they were swimming in cash, anyway. Gar did give them really great Christmas presents every year, which was how they wound up with a TV that Jaime postulated was visible from space. (It wasn’t; they verified from the Watchtower.) 

Apartment 307 was up three flights of outdoor stairs— _so_ _fun_ in the summer—in a smaller complex a couple miles from Rice, but just far enough from campus to avoid being a party-pad kind of place. The exterior was the same taupe stucco of every apartment built in Texas since the early 2000s. The interior matched it in the form of textured paint and cheap carpet.

At 7:30 on Sunday morning, Jaime was gathering up all the towels, single socks, t-shirts, and underwear that sprang up like mushrooms in the corners of their bedroom, bathroom, and under the bed every week. He’d already stripped the sheets off the bed and dumped them in front of the laundry closet off the kitchen. Their combined hoodies thrown over the back and arms of the couch, he didn’t bother with.

He popped his head out past the laundry closet doors; the slatted kind for ventilation, made of hollow whitewashed wood. “Seriously, I know I say this every weekend, but we  _ need _ to figure out where we’re gonna live. My residency’s over in a few months. You know you’re gonna get offers right after your internship,” he stressed. Again.

Bart shrugged like he always did. Like the question was unimportant, and the answer obvious. Jaime wanted to ball up a sock and throw it at him. 

“Central City.” 

“Okay, but why? Barry’s on top of it, and you can run anywhere you want in….” He sighed at his own mistake.

Bart, who had already passed by the laundry closet on his way to the fridge, backed up a few steps in order to smirk at him. “Say it.”

Jaime rolled his eyes, long-suffering. “In a flash.”

Bart leaned in to peck him on the cheek—“That's my boyfriend”—and then continued on his way.

“We should at least move closer to a zeta entrance. And I needed to start looking for a job  _ yesterday _ ,” Jaime reminded him.

“We kind-of have part-time jobs already,” Bart called back, accompanied by the sucking sound of the fridge door opening.

Jaime could feel his brows knit. “No, I have a very risky side gig. Besides, half the people we know have day jobs and alternate identities.” 

He pulled the liquid laundry detergent off the top of the stacked washer/dryer. As was their habit, he depressed the button and eyeballed the amount, not bothering with the little cup they’d lost again and didn’t care about anyway. Water set to hot, lid closed, he backed out and shut the closet door. “And after 11  _ years _ of no sleep and constant stress, you better believe—”

Bart had already stepped away from the counter where he’d (gently) placed their egg carton and (haphazardly) tossed his morning protein bar so he could frame Jaime's face in his hands. “You’re right. Hey, we can move wherever you want. All I care about is that you’re happy.”

If it were anyone but Bart, Jaime would have suspected a ploy to stop his mini-tirade.

Bart moved around him to pull a spatula out of the dishwasher. “And hey, maybe we could get a house or townhouse or something, and maybe one of those dogs that does agility courses? Or one of those big fluffy cats with huge paws? Or both? I think I’d like a parrot, actually.” Predictably, his eyes widened. “Wait, you don't have allergies, right? HowcanInotknowthis?”

Jaime reached over to take his free hand and reign him in early. “No allergies. Milagro brought home all sorts of strays when we were kids.”

Bart exhaled with relief. “Then I stand by what I said, amigo. The world is your cloister.” 

“Oyster.”

“Oyster,” Bart echoed. “Wow, that makes so much more sense now.”

“How do you know  _ you're _ not allergic to animals?” Jaime asked. 

“Gar,” Bart answered simply, tearing open the wrapper of his protein bar. “And Dox. I know that’s only two data points but it's a start. Plus I’ve been around cats before at Cassie’s place.”

“I don’t think Gar counts, but I’ll let you collect more data,” Jaime said, shaking his head fondly before positioning himself unignorably in Bart’s direct line of sight. “But first things first, we have to at least  _ narrow down _ where we want to live.”

Bart considered it, hip leaned against the counter. “Are you still thinking Southwest?”

Satisfied, Jaime got out the butter. “West or Southwest, yeah.”

“Of the U.S.,” Bart verified. “Oh, right, you can’t practice in other countries.” 

“Most of our family and friends are here anyway.” Jaime tossed a knife’s curl of butter into the skillet and flipped on the element. “No word from Lockheed?” He asked, even though the question was most likely redundant. Bart would have said something the second he found out.

“Not yet.” Bart frowned at the box of eggs still on the counter. It wasn’t like him to look at food that way, even uncooked. “Vic’s gonna talk me up to someone at Boston Dynamics, but that would mean, y’know, staying local to make it seem realistic. Waltham is a long way from Houston or El Paso.”

Jaime bit the inside of his bottom lip for a second. “An internship there would be, what, three months?”

“Normally, yeah, but Vic said given my background and being done with my masters, they’d probably want to keep me longer. More like six,” Bart said, somewhat glumly. He’d started rapidly flipping the egg carton’s lid open and closed in response to the conversation and his usual energy. Like so many other things he did, it caused a slight localized breeze.

Jaime’s heart sunk, too, but he didn’t want to let on. “We could make it work,” he said, tugging the carton out of Bart’s grasp and plucking six eggs from it. With three in each hand, he turned to the skillet on the stove. “If Vic comes through and it looks good, you should do it.”

Bart shrugged one shoulder. “I guess I could get a place out there and not stay there much. Commute in the morning.”

_ Commute. Right.  _ “Well, Boston does have a zeta for me,” Jaime pointed out.

Bart still looked downcast. “I don’t know, the idea of keeping separate places again just feels weird. Even if it’s just for show.”

Yeah, it did—enough that it caused a twinge in Jaime’s chest. “Well, if your internship goes well—”

“If I even get it—” Bart interjected, notably more practical than usual.

“If you get it and you like it, there’s nothing to stop us from moving to Massachusetts. Other than it being freezing and the insane cost of living.” Jaime finished cracking the eggs and tossed the shells into the trash.

“What about how far it is from your family?”

He wiped his eggy hands on the damp towel Bart held out to him. “We’ll deal with that if it comes up. From what you’ve told me and the YouTube videos, Boston Dynamics seems like a really cool place, and even if it takes some work, I’m sure I could find a short-term rotation out there.” He set the towel on the counter, hesitating before adding, “Maybe a long-term thing, if you—if we like it.”

Bart stretched his arms out across the counter, parallel to the cabinets in order to accommodate his long limbs. He bent to rest his forehead on them. “This is so moded.”

That was a twist. “Why aren’t you being optimistic? I rely on you to be optimistic,” Jaime intoned.

“Adulting, Jaime. But you’re right,” Bart sighed and stood up straight. “This is nothing. It’s great. We’ll make it work. We’ve got it easy compared to most people, most couples.”

“In most ways, yeah. ...I wouldn’t mind not getting shot at—”

“Lasered.”

“— _ Shot at _ once a month. I’m not arguing semantics for the second time this week.” He turned off the stove and grabbed two plates from the dishwasher, handing one to Bart. 

Monthly was only a minor exaggeration, and only because Jaime was last on the roster. Everyone knew not to call him up unless it was truly dire, because he’d be sleep deprived and just maybe pissed enough to let Khaji Da have his way. (Jaime refused to let the scarab cheat on his exams, though.)

Their spatula handle had partially melted when it fell through the dishwasher racks onto the heating element, but it held up just fine under Jaime’s average-human scoop of eggs. As usual, Bart tipped the skillet upside-down to scrape the rest onto his plate, burnt bits and all.

For once, they had a reason to sit down at the little wooden table in the kitchen, almost exclusively used when they had guests over. 

“I know we’ve talked about it before—more than once—but be honest with me. Right now, do you want to give it up?” Bart asked, his voice softer than his intense gaze.

Jaime speared a chunk of rubbery egg with his fork and pushed it around a bit. Finally, he sighed. “I still don’t know. I feel guilty even thinking about it.”

“Don’t,” Bart replied quickly. “C’mon Jaime, don’t feel guilty.”

It wasn’t quite a repeat of the last time they talked about it, but it wasn’t that far off.

“Khaji Da wants to keep going. You all chose to keep going,” Jaime said, still looking at his plate.

Bart sighed. “KD aside—’cause I know you have to decide together,” he directed his words half at Jaime and half at the scarab. “Just because some of us are sticking with the hero gig doesn’t mean  _ you _ have to. Besides, do you think I want—” He glanced away for a moment. “I don’t exactly love the potential for you to get hurt.”

Jaime finally leveled his own Look at his boyfriend.

Bart’s eyeroll was  _ almost _ too fast for Jaime to catch, but you didn’t live with (and love) a guy for nearly three years without picking up on his cues. Even if he was a speedster. Not that he’d ever tell Bart, because Jaime’s last few ‘surprise’ birthday parties had gone considerably better thanks to finding out in advance.

“Okay, you feel the same way, that’s fair. All I’m saying is,  _ you _ get to decide, and you know everyone will support you, no matter what.” Bart inclined his head. “Plus, it’s not like you can’t change your mind later.”

The wooden chair creaked as Jaime leaned back to consider things; they needed to tighten the screws again. Bart spider-crawled his fingers across the table. “You gonna finish that?”

Jaime nudged his plate the rest of the way toward him, feeling a familiar little smile bloom. “So...when do you think you’ll hear back from Vic?”

“Hopefully in the next week,” Bart answered, using both their forks as a makeshift shovel. It wouldn’t take him more than a bite or two; Jaime had eaten some of his own breakfast, after all.

Jaime regarded him, still leaning back. “...You really want a dog? Hard to have a dog in an apartment near Boston. Rent’s nuts there already.”

Bart ignored the direct question, scraping his own chair back to take both their plates to the sink. “We could live pretty far out.” 

He turned to give Jaime a long, pointed look as he began unloading the dishwasher. The remaining clean dishes clinked while he stowed them in the cabinets at  _ almost _ standard speed. The whole thing was clearly a demonstration for Jaime, who only nagged Bart about like one or two things, thank you very much. The dishwasher was  _ one. _

The silverware basket rattled as Bart tugged it free from the tines. “Oh, and Gar’s got this cool brush he uses to get fur off the furniture whenever Perdita’s family is coming over, because I guess  _ her _ cousin is allergic, and even if it’s just Gar and not a real cat, I think it’s a psychosomatic thing, so—.”

“You actually do, don’t you?” Jaime interrupted him fondly. “You’re not scared of them anymore.”

“Hey,” said Bart, briefly pointing a clean fork at him. “I was never  _ scared _ , just appropriately cautious. They bite.”

Bart had gotten over a lot of the things he didn’t talk about—things Jaime had picked up on or inferred over the years. Most of them, he didn’t pry into. Roving packs of feral dogs, he could guess at.  _ People in collars and wild dogs without them _ .

It’d taken Jaime a year or two to stop retreating when his lingering feelings of unease and guilt swelled—when he imagined the future Bart didn’t talk about. He might finally be able to accept that it wasn’t his fault, but nobody liked thinking about their loved ones hurting.

“Hey, what do you want to do with your unexpected day off?” Bart asked brightly, triumphantly slamming the dishwasher door shut.

Jaime just opened it again a moment later to slide the dirty plates from the sink into the bottom rack. To do otherwise would be to risk Bart just rinsing them off and calling it good. “Park? Movies? I guess we should work out at some point,” he replied. 

“Leg day!” Bart exclaimed with his fists in the air. As if he’d ever had to do a leg day in his  _ entire life. _ He didn’t even know what the retro phrase meant; he just liked to say it. “You know if we work out, we’re just gonna get called up anyway. Lizard guys, or something. They’re always more active in the spring.”

Jaime thought for a moment, looking out at the beautiful late-April day through the little kitchen window. The park, the movies, that was all boring town stuff. They had the whole day together. “What would you say to heading out to Mustang Island and doing the cheesy beach picnic thing?”

“Well now,” Bart said from just behind him. When Jaime turned, Bart’s left eyebrow was raised, and the glass-bottle green of his eyes was clearer and brighter in the morning sun. “I do like cheesy.”

Jaime knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bart started college at 17. He would've done an internship before finishing his Masters, but whatever. And while I appreciate comics-Jaime's adorable dream of being a dentist, I liked this setup better for a few reasons.
> 
> I've been wrestling with a long, complicated Bartuado story for eight? months now. It's killing me. When I finally decided to take a break and write some fluff, Bluepulse happened. 
> 
> I'll be reading more once I start pushing my Zetaflash monster out the door. Looking forward to some of the Bluepulse gems I've missed.


	2. Monday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime suffers heroically. A lost object is recovered. But mostly Jaime suffers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little nervous about posting this, but also tired of waiting. See note at the end about Jaime's Spanish.

**MONDAY, FOUR MONTHS EARLIER**

Jaime groaned as he fumbled the remote, watching it bounce off the shoe-scuffed lower shelf of their coffee table and skid right underneath the couch. The couch on which he was currently, pathetically, situated.  _ Of course _ . 

He heaved a sigh. Where did he put the dinosaur grabber, anyway?

[[ Jaime Reyes, the assistive novelty stick remains in the kitchen. I suggest— ]]

[ _ Still your fault. _ ] Jaime reminded Khaji Da for the second or third time that day.

With another sigh, he wriggled onto his stomach as best he could. He hung his head over the edge of the cushion and crooked his arm to try to fish out the remote. After half a dozen sweeps of his hand, he wasn’t ready to give up the fight, but he did have to come up for air. Twisted up as he was, half on his front and half on his side, the blood rushing to his head, trying not to move  _ too _ much because he was elevating his tibial fracture—it was the hardest workout he’d had in a while.

Trying one last time, his hand bumped up against something that felt and sounded like a book. That, at least, he was able to coax out, his fingers squeaking as they dragged at the cover. 

Once he’d retrieved it, he spared a glare for the robovac crouched in its charging station in the corner. The useless thing probably nudged the book over and over until it was obscured under the couch, yet it missed the dust bunnies under the coffee table every single time—no matter how he and Bart messed with its settings. 

[  _ Oh, shut up _ , ] he told Khaji Da. [  _ You know we can’t, Paola gave it to us. _ ]

The book was thick, a large-format hardcover with a glossy jacket; the kind you forked over forty bucks for, new. Like a lot of the quantum physics books Jaime encountered (which was not an insignificant number) it was all black except for the cover illustration and all-caps title. The illustration was some kind of space phenomenon he didn’t recognize. It looked like a mesh funnel inside a wave, or maybe an atom, or a seashell. Maybe a wormhole. Was it a metaphor? 

Khaji Da remained silent, presumably sulking. [ _ ...Nothing? You have nothing to say about me saying you sulk? Wow.  _ ]

He focused on the book again, flipping it over to read the back synopsis. The whole volume was in surprisingly good condition given its presence in their household. Neither he nor Bart were particularly careful with most of their things.

...Oh... _ oh. _

Jaime remembered  _ the _ book now. He’d only seen the back cover before but he remembered it well; about a month ago, he’d unwittingly used it as a coaster, and both Virgil and Bart gasped like he was trying to burn the Constitution.

~

“What are you  _ doing _ —” Virgil exclaimed in disbelief, rescuing the book and clutching it securely to his chest. If he were a kangaroo, it would have been safe in his (her) pocket by now.

“—It’s  _ signed _ ,” Bart added, aghast enough that his jaw actually dropped. Apparently, not only was Jaime trying to burn the Constitution, but he was bowling with puppies, too.

In tandem, Bart and Virgil warily leaned away from him on the couch. They also ignored the full can of diet soda that Virgil had knocked over in his haste to rescue his book; the liquid now sluicing off the coffee table and pattering onto the carpet.

“Jeez, sorry,” Jaime said, pulling a hoodie off the back of the couch. “You’re not normally so picky about stuff. Is the author famous or something?”

[[ The author is a leading figure among Earth’s— ]]

“He’s a  _ genius _ , and this is a first edition,” Bart preached before turning to Virgil sheepishly. “I’m sorry, he just doesn’t understand.”

“I can forgive him,” Virgil said, his chin lifted bravely. “For he knows not what he did.”

“All right, that’s it,” Jaime grumbled, from where he was using the hoodie to blot up the liquid fast being absorbed by the carpet pad. He rose to his knees. “Nothing spilled on it and you’re both hilarious. Go get me—”

“Is that  _ my hoodie? _ !” Bart cried out, wounded.

“Goddammit,” Jaime muttered as he stood and stomped off to the kitchen, himself.

~

Weeks later, Jaime lay on the same couch with his lower leg in a cast, unable to stomp at all. Briefly, he wondered how the book wound up on the floor in the first place, given how attached Virgil was.

“Hey, Bart?” He called over the slight noise of the TV, holding up the thick book for his boyfriend to see. “I think I found something of Virgil’s.”

Bart zipped to his side, wisps of shaving cream on one cheek. His face lit up. “You found it! Where was it?”

“Under the couch,” Jaime replied. He didn’t miss the dirty look Bart shot the robovac. They were all against it now.

“Oh man, I thought it was gone and Stat was gonna  _ murder me _ . Not that I’d blame him.” Bart gesticulated with both hands, including the one holding the (safety) razor. “I’ll run it over to him first thing in the morning with some cake or something to apologize. Actually, maybe I should take it tonight—”

“I’m sure tomorrow’s fine. You could just text him tonight,” Jaime interjected quickly. While it was true that tomorrow should be fine, he might’ve had an ulterior motive. He attempted to look casual, glancing back at the TV. “Hey, if you’re going up to California anyway, could you maybe stop and—”

“Pick up tamales? From that place in Cerritos?” Bart called from across the apartment again.

Jaime grinned, calling back, “Yeah. Don’t tell my mom, of course...or mis abuelas. Or my dad…or any of my other relatives.” His brow had furrowed progressively as he listed family members. Was he playing a truly dangerous game?

[[ Yes. ]]

[ ... _ Worth it. _ ]

“Any of them?” Bart asked dryly, suddenly standing next to him again. The remaining smears of shaving cream were gone.

“Any of them. All of them,” Jaime instructed solemnly. “Not even sure about Milagro.”

“All right, I’ll keep your secrets,” Bart said, sounding like he would’ve nudged Jaime in the ribs if he were standing up. He surprised Jaime then by ruffling his hair. Bart  _ never _ ruffled his hair. It was too short to ruffle. Did having a cast on one’s leg suddenly turn a man into a  _ joke _ ?

Bart wiped his hand on his jeans—out of an abundance of caution, surely, not because Jaime hadn’t showered for nearly three days—and gingerly lifted the book from Jaime’s grasp. He disappeared back into the bedroom.

Jaime squirmed to get comfortable again. On their giant TV, Netflix had switched to displaying the title card for another series. It meant he’d burned through all the episodes of the show he’d been half-watching.  _ I should be studying _ , came the guilty thought.

[[ That would be wise. ]]

He deliberated for a second; discipline prevailed. “Hey, Bart?”

His boyfriend reappeared with a hefty sandwich in hand, wrapped in a dish cloth to prevent pickle spillage. “‘Sup?”

“Can you get the remote out from under the couch for me? And maybe my books?”

“Sure. Where’s the T-rex?” Predictably, Bart pantomimed with his free hand.

“Khaji Da says in the kitchen. But weren’t you just—”

In just over a second, the remote and a glass of water were on the coffee table within easy reach. Jaime’s books and a highlighter were stacked on the floor beside him, and the dinosaur grabber rested across his stomach.

Bart leaned over the arm of the couch, smiling and upside-down. “Anything else, my liege?”

Jaime pretended to mull it over. “I think I’m good.” What he really wanted was to get out of the freaking apartment, but right now that required Bart to carry him up and down three flights of stairs.

[[ This persistent refusal to fly is illogical. ]]

Jaime was admittedly crumbling. [  _ It’s too easy to be spotted if we armor up before we even get out the door _ . ... _ And I’m supposed to keep it elevated _ . ] Both were weak excuses, at best.

[[ Elevation is easily obtained. ]]

[  _ Funny. I bet you wish you could smirk right about now.  _ ]

“Khaji Da made a joke,” he told Bart’s upside-down visage, repeating it to him.

Even at rest, Bart still sometimes laughed at speed; he sounded like a chipmunk in those really old cartoons. Sometimes it was endearing as hell. Sometimes it got on Jaime’s last nerve. This time it was closer to endearing—

“You know, he might have a point,” Bart said mildly.

—although it had the potential to turn.

[[ Bart Allen agrees. ]]

A thought occurred. [  _ Could we armor up just around the cast so I can take a shower?  _ ]

[[ When I suggested this yesterday, Jaime Reyes, you— ]]

[  _ Okay, fine, I’m done holding a grudge. _ ]

[[ ...Acceptable. ]]

Jaime blew out a breath. “I’m gonna shower,” he told Bart, “without the trash bag and tape.”

His boyfriend straightened up. “Done being mad at KD?”

Jaime used both of Bart’s offered arms to pull himself up, then accepted his crutches. “Maybe it wasn’t all his fault,” he admitted, surprised when the scarab remained silent. “But it wasn’t mine, either. ...This just sucks,” he didn’t whine tiredly.

Bart, chaperoning him, made a sympathetic noise and stroked Jaime’s shoulder blade. “Secret tamales will make it better.”

“...Maybe,” Jaime muttered.

[[ Now who is sulking. ]]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea where the "plot" bunny came from, but I imagine Jaime has a spiral fracture caused by a group athletic activity, during which KD actually listened to Jaime and didn't blow their cover by protecting his leg. But as they say at the end of Brooklyn 99, not a doctor.
> 
> I switched almost all of Jaime's Spanish back to English because while I have some idea, I didn't want to screw up regional differences. The native speaker friend I would've asked to validate wasn't around to pester. (Although he's from Dallas and not El Paso, he knows things.) I had to leave in mis abuelas because I just *can't* see him calling them anything else.
> 
> On a different note, I would LOVE to join a beta group. I suck at updating my own stuff sometimes, but I'm a responsible reader. :D I'm not the best at providing substantive, character-based feedback, but I'd like to improve that.


End file.
